Surf Lessons at Popham

Todd, Peter and I drove down the coast for a surf class at Popham Beach. For me, in addition to instruction in a skill that I knew little about, it was a rare, mid-summer excursion off the island. We went looking for dinner in Boothbay Harbor, where restaurant greeters, one even dressed in a Sou’wester hat and tall boots (it wasn’t raining) competed for our business. Instead of lobster boats, the harbor was full of cabin cruisers and other recreational craft. People drove in circles looking for parking spaces, and then waited in lines. We weren’t in Stonington anymore.

But not far from all this, deep in the woods, we found the home of John Carmody of Sea Cliff Kayakers. John showed us the P&H kayaks we’d be trying out, and then went over our plan. In the morning, we would drive to Fort Popham and take a short paddle over to the beach, where, depending on conditions, the current and sandbars would provide us with ample opportunity to experiment in the surf.




Admittedly, I felt a little nervous as we launched and headed out. This was something new. Would I do alright? How would my flatwater roll work in the surf? I expected to need a good roll, since I would undoubtedly get clobbered by a wave or two. I felt determined to push beyond my comfort zone. I cooled off with a roll, beginning to feel more in my element. We reached the sandbar where small waves were coming in, and plunged in, getting a feel for it. When I capsized in the shallows, rolling off of my (helmeted) head, I began to feel even more comfortable. By the next time I capsized, I was having fun.

Peter catches a wave

Our time on the waves was punctuated by breaks on the beach, during which John critiqued what was working for us and what wasn’t. The first lessons involved the more utilitarian aspects of handling a boat in the surf: launching & landing, bracing and generally how to stay upright. We progressed into handling a boat on a wave, working on edging the boat rather than relying on the paddle.

Meanwhile, countless girls in bikinis strolled the beach. Unfortunately, I have no photo to illustrate this point... or much else for that matter. I tried to stay focused on learning something, and when I did snap a photo, it was usually blurred by water on the lens. We’ll just have to do it all again. By late afternoon, we were catching waves, sometimes even staying on them. Peter demonstrated that it all worked the same with a Greenland paddle, and at one point Todd spun his paddle overhead, demonstrating... something else. For me, it felt great to catch a sizeable wave (sizeable to me) and instead of just capsizing, riding it, adjusting my speed to keep the stern at the crest.


We met John at a coffee shop in Bath, and discussed what we’d learned, and what we needed to work on. Later, at a Thai restaurant in Belfast, the three of us came up with a page of notes, trying to remember all that we had learned, which turned out to be considerable. As the sand continues to sift from our gear, we look forward to our next chance to get out in the surf.

Escape From Stonington

I started Monday morning like most: a cup of coffee and The New Yorker while occasionally looking out over Stonington Harbor. This time though, instead of the Adirondack chair in the front room of our apartment, I was on Rock Island, sitting on a rock (of course) above the broad, sandy beach, looking north at the harbor. I could see the windows in our apartment, a mile away.



We’d hoped to get a little further. The plan was to leave soon after work on Sunday evening, but while we can get out the door reasonably quickly for a paddle, adding camping gear took much longer than expected. We were on the water at ten of eight. The sun sets at 8:20. As we paddled away from the ramp, a dense fog settled-in. I took a bearing on Rock Island just before it disappeared.

Gooseberry Island

So we only managed to get a mile away from home. We didn’t care. We pitched our tent and had dinner as the dark and fog closed in. Soon we heard the faint sound of a motor and an occasional toot on a fog horn. This didn’t seem strange until we realized it was going back and forth, in circles, and we heard something about the Coast Guard on its radio. We tuned-in the VHF and discovered that someone had apparently shot off a flare, and the Coast Guard was searching for a vessel in distress. We listened, walking the beach which was the same aqueous grey as the water and sky. Dreamy. We woke in the daylight to the sound of several nearby lobster boats. And then, over at the quarry on Crotch Island, granite cutting began, which is not a quiet task. We were in a beautiful spot, but we hadn’t exactly escaped Stonington.



Later, while paddling along McGlathery Island, I heard a breaking wave, and turned in time to brace into it before it carried me up onto a ledge, where I spent several precarious minutes holding myself upright while I waited for a big enough wave to get me floating again. I had been minding my business, not even goofing around... really. My helmet was safely packed in the front hatch. Good thing Rebecca was there, otherwise... we’d have no photos of it.



We spent the day meandering around the archipelago: Gooseberry, Fog Island, north past Southern Mark Island toward Saddleback. We had some nice wind and waves for awhile, and looked forward to taking a nice long break (the rest of the afternoon) at a favorite sandy beach, but discovered it was occupied by a couple of other kayakers.



We wanted our own island, so we went to another, a state-owned island which, depending on the tide, may have a problematic landing and launch. Good thing. You can figure it out if you want to go there, but for now, it’s my secret new favorite place. The steep, rocky shoreline can be walked in about ten minutes. We spent hours there: enough time to watch a thunderstorm approach and pass to the north (phew) and enough time for Rebecca to start a couple of small paintings and for me to finish reading my New Yorker. We had escaped Stonington.

Southern Mark Island

We had enough food and water to spend another night out, but there was work to tend to at home, where we arrived just as it grew dark.

Our Own Private Idaho
(That's Rebecca on the right).

Around Isle au Haut

One price we pay for living in such a superlative paddling spot is that we make much of our living in a short, but intense period of time when everyone else seems to be having all the fun. Over the weekend of the fourth, I spent long days in the gallery, chatting with hundreds of people, smiling until my jaw hurt. This was after a long week of similar days, my mornings and evenings spent in the gallery, getting ready- five days straight with no paddling. I got out Sunday evening with Rebecca, but still, by Monday, the long hours of pleasant chit-chat and repeated conversations had begun to grind away at my soul. The best antidote was a long, strenuous paddle.

On the west shore, Kimball Island in the background.

On the phone, I told Todd that it was about time we went around Isle au Haut again. He had work to do, but I heard Wendee in the background saying just go. Magic words.



Isle au Haut lies around six miles from Stonington, the hilly backdrop to most of our paddling in the archipelago. At six miles long, by two miles wide, the island has enough shoreline to take up days of exploration, but for a one-day circumnavigation from Stonington in eight or nine hours, one needs to paddle quickly and minimize the dilly-dallying. Still, thinking of the cliffy south end shoreline exposed to the bold ocean swell, we packed our helmets; you just never know what you might run into.


We left at high tide, just after eleven. While this didn’t put a lot of current behind us, we wouldn’t be fighting it. Taking a wide, open route to Ram Island, and across to Kimball Head, we paddled quickly, despite a beam wind that kept us doing sweep strokes for the first eight miles. After Kimball Island, we turned toward Isle au Haut, seeking a little less wind, and arrived at a beach just past Duck Harbor in a little over two hours.

Western Ear

Toward the south end of the island, the coast turns increasingly rugged. A remote section of Acadia National Park, this third of the island is wild, the shore uninterrupted by summer homes. Hikers occasionally watched us from atop the shoreside cliffs. At the southwest corner, amid a rolling fog, we paddled around Western Ear, where a mild swell made for some fun among the rocks, and even though we still had far to go, we took our time exploring. This was the reward for all that quickly-paced paddling. This is where you can lose track of time for awhile, just having fun, occasionally pausing to savor the coolness of those rocks, or the echoey feeling inside a chasm where the swell gently moves you up and down, the water dripping from a wall of seaweed.


By the time the tide turned, we were headed back, arriving in Stonington after about 23 miles of paddling in eight and a half hours.

Hey, that's me on the left!

It's interesting to contrast this excursion with the last (and first) time we circumnavigated Isle au Haut, almost two years ago. Back then, the graceful power of an open ocean swell beneath the boat was still new to me, and when Todd paddled into the bottom of a tall slot in the rock, it seemed a strange and iffy thing to do. Now those rocks seem to exert their gravity upon us (even as I sit here at my desk in the gallery). We were less certain of our abilities, but were willing to push the boundaries. Lessons and repeated practice continue to push them further. Now if we could just sneak in a paddle like that at least once a week, we can work up to the thirty-mile trips.

Ironbound Island

It was a calm day off of Bar Harbor, just a mild swell as we paddled three miles directly to Ironbound Island, on the other side of Frenchman Bay. We didn't have any big plans; we thought we'd get out there and meander back through the Porcupine Islands. As soon as we arrived at the southern end of Ironbound though, we noticed that the mild swell was making some big splashes when it hit the steep, rocky shore.



Some days are all about paddling some miles, others are all about the distractions you find along the way. Oh boy, I love those distractions. We paddled below the cliffs, winding our way among the rocks, letting the swell lift us and drop us. Sometimes you maneuver into an interesting spot and that unexpected big wave comes in. Sometimes the water beneath you just...



... goes away. Fortunately, many of the ledges are padded with seaweed.



Sometimes there's not much to do but wait for that next wave to come and get you.




But hopefully, when it gets you, it doesn't really get you.

Here's a link to the Southern Maine Sea Kayak Network Message Board, where there are some interesting thoughts about seal-kayaker relations.

Naskeag to Swans

As the crow flies, Naskeag Point is about seven miles from Stonington, and not much more if you paddle there. A few days ago though, Rebecca and I strapped the kayaks on the car and drove there, which took us the better part of an hour. We were meeting Peter (see Bartlett Island) and a few other friends we hadn’t yet paddled with. Nate had chosen instead to work on his sailboat. It was a good day for scraping paint on a sailboat: bright and sunny, temps in the high 60’s, not too much wind. If I had a sailboat to work on, or a lawn to mow, that’s what I would have done, but since I don’t, there was little to do but go kayaking.



We met Peter, Barbara, Kim, Karen and Jim, making us a flotilla of seven. Like any blind date, you find yourself checking the others out: what sort of boat they’re paddling, what they’re wearing, in short, do they look like they know what they’re doing? This time, the answer was very obviously yes. We’d met Barbara at a pool session, where she’d been practicing Greenland rolls, which she also teaches. Karen is the proprietor of Castine Sea Kayak Adventures, while Kim was once a guide and instructor at Sea Kayak Georgia. Jim is the owner of Rose Bicycle in Orono, and trains for riding 300 miles in a single day.

Having become accustomed to the simplicity of solo paddling, I have done very little kayaking in a group. If I were to learn anything from the day, it might be something about the dynamics of group paddling. Should a leader be appointed? No one seemed to want the job, so we would govern ourselves loosely; we were all captains of our own boats.

Karen established who had what safety gear- we all seemed to have phones, VHFs and some emergency supplies. This enabled us to split up if anyone wanted to go faster or farther than the rest. It was a day off for all of us though, and we took a liesurely paddle across Jericho Bay, chatting as a mild tailwind pushed us toward Opechee Island.



How do you paddle in such a group? We usually kept a fairly tight formation, since we seemed to have a lot to talk about. I occasionally looked around to see that we were all accounted for, only to see that the others were doing the same.



After a long lunch break on a small, ledgy island, we wound our way among a group of small islands off of Swans Island. Our only uncertain moments came when we all seemed drawn toward different islands, but eventually we ended-up moving in the same general direction.


At the mouth of Casco Passage, where the swell from the west hit relatively shallow water, we enjoyed a wavy, turbulent crossing, which was perhaps the highlight of my day. As we returned to Naskeag point, we all seemed to have a bit of energy still, so we went around Harbor Island and reluctantly called it a day.


Did I learn anything about group paddling? I was certainly inspired by other paddlers, whether by graceful Greenland technique, elegant handling in waves or the ability to non-lead a group of leaders.

Postscript: it turns out that we did have a leader; I just didn't know it. I guess that's a skill in itself.

At the End of the Day

I close the gallery at five. If I don’t dilly-dally too much (food, sitting down & saying “gee I’m tired,” etc.) I can be on the water by six. Maybe earlier. Sunset is at 8:15, and twilight lasts at least a half-hour, maybe more. And now the moon is full. So I have at least two or three hours for evening paddles, and lately, I’ve been making the most of that time. One evening I did a ten-mile loop, George’s Head to Saddleback Island, returning at sunset past three schooners anchored off Hell’s Half Acre. Another evening’s route circled some western outer ledges and Ram Island, with seals trailing just behind for miles. Last night I went around McGlathery and Gooseberry Islands, returning as the full moon rose.

I feel very lucky, but admittedly, there are moments when I lament that I don’t have more time. As I rounded Scraggy Ledge, the water surface was calm, and I’d spent the last four miles paddling in a comfortable, quick rhythm, not thinking about much, and there, miles away, Saddleback Light rose up from the horizon like a challenge. The far end of Isle au Haut was right there. I knew I could do it... if only it weren’t nearly dark and instead had a day ahead of me.


I guess the funny thing about this is, how obsessed I’ve become. I’m vaguely aware sometimes that my perspective of the importance of sea kayaking versus all other things has shifted. At some point, I came to a conscious realization that there’s almost nothing I would rather be doing with my evening than getting out in the kayak. Yes, there are movies and other events at the Opera House, and yes there are invitations to potlucks and other social events. Once upon a time, I liked to keep the gallery open into the evening. If I stay on shore for these things, I often end up talking to people about kayaking, all the while wishing I were out there instead.


This is hard to explain. Trying to rationalize it makes me feel like a convert to a weird religion watching as your listener’s eyes glaze over. Eventually, you try to avoid those conversations. And what’s a good way to do that? Just go paddling instead.

Snapshots

May 24, Stonington Harbor. Rebecca gets out her camera to shoot some lobster boat bows. She uses these photos as reference for paintings. These close-ups of boats at the waterline started in 1998, in Greece, and in a way, are a big part of what brought us to Stonington. While she moves among the boats, taking pictures, I practice rolls. The water is in the high 40's now- much more tolerable than when it was in the 30's. A porpoise moves around the harbor, exhaling rythmically.



May 29, approaching John Island. Fog. Nice. And then off of Sand Island: some rocks, some waves.





May 22, Buckle Island. We've taken a bunch of photos at these rocks. I expect we'll take many more. And I think we've had this same sunset before as we paddled back into the Thorofare.


Lately, we've had a lot of nice after-work paddles. We don't get onto the water until after six, and usually get back by 8:30 or so, a little after sunset. I had a nice run there for a bit, not missing an evening. It was going so well, I almost felt bad about it, as if maybe there's something else that I, as a responsible grown-up ought to be doing, but I quickly got over such feelings, reasoning that you just have to get out there while you can. When it rained, we paddled in the rain. When it turned windy, I chalked it up to good practice. But then came the last four days... four dry days: social events, marginal weather, a movie, a meeting, work, cleaning the apartment. How is it that I sometimes lose perspective and let these things interfere with paddling? The kitchen floor is gleamingly clean, but you don't want to read about that, do you?